Harden resisted the urge to vomit, spitting once on the ground instead. “Why would you want to do that?”
“That your next question?”
Harden shook his head.
“Three more, then,” Bill said, his voice calm but far from soothing. He seemed less drunk than before, but maybe that was just because of the suddenness of his brutality.
Harden considered his questions carefully. He knew his questions had to be tactical and unemotional. If he could figure out how to get out of the cell, he could answer most of his own damn questions. He tried not to think of the blood, which was the warmest thing he’d felt since holding Emma.
“Are you alone here, Bill?”
“That’s a good one.” He switched the knife to his left hand and used his forearm to wipe his nose. “For the moment I am. There’re two of us. My partner went out for supplies.”
No one else here, Harden thought. Could that really be the truth?
Harden repositioned his footing.
When would the partner be coming back? Was Coyote anywhere nearby? Were they near the campus?
Too many questions, and Harden only had two left before the next slice.
“What would I have to do to get you to let me go?”
This time Bill actually smiled, but there was no humor or warmth in it. Only teeth.
“Got a million bucks?”
“Fuck you. You’re not answering my question.”
“I certainly am. I would absolutely let you go for a million dollars. Tell you what—I’d even go half that. But short of that, it’s not happening. Not worth the risk. How is that not answering you?”
Outwitting Bill wasn’t going to work, not because Bill was the smarter man in the room, but because he was the crazier.
“You got one more question. Ask away.”
“I’m not sure I want any more answers.”
“Oh, come on now,” Bill said. “We’re just getting started here.”
“How long are we going to play?”
“Is that your last question?”
“No. Let me think.” Harden tried to make a fist with his right hand and it only brought fresh pain. His skin was sticky slick with blood, and he knew his already weakened state left him susceptible to a wound infection. He had to get out of here. He couldn’t get cut again. He couldn’t live like this any longer.
The faint sound of Bill’s wheezing was the only sound in the room before Harden asked his final question.
“Am I going to die in here?”
Bill chewed on the question for an excruciatingly long time before answering. “Be honest with you, Harden, I don’t have a clue what the big man wants to happen to you. He certainly hasn’t told us to kill you.” He lowered his head but kept his eyes on Harden, and his mouth turned into a crooked wedge. “But he hasn’t told me to keep you alive, neither.”
“He wants to read what I write, doesn’t he?”
“No more questions. My turn now.”
Harden took another step back.
Bill furrowed his brow as his gaze burrowed into Harden’s torso. “Well, now, I don’t want to cut too deep, lest I get into trouble, but it’s got to be deeper than the first one. Don’t worry, I’ll clean you up after. Got some gauze left over that I used on the bitch’s stump.”
He was the one who used the bolt cutters on Emma. Harden imagined her screaming. The horror in her eyes as she felt the dull metal blades crunch through the bones of her finger. Harden squeezed his left hand into a fist, wanting nothing more than to take the scalpel from him and slice through Bill’s eyes with it.
Stay calm. Don’t be a threat until you have a real chance.
“Tell me what you’re going to do,” Harden said.
Bill nodded at Harden’s torso. “I’m thinking the belly this time. You lift your shirt and I go in.”
“You are a sick bastard.”
Bill nodded. “S’pose I could see how you might feel that way.”
Bill walked up to Harden. Harden tried to stand his ground but felt his legs retreating. He looked down at his right hand. It was still bleeding, but the flow had lessened.
“Don’t you flinch now, hear me? You don’t want it worse than it needs to be.”
The stench of the man hit Harden. The smell of charred meat in his clothes.
Bill grunted and gestured with the blade. “Lift that shirt.”
Nausea roiled Harden. How could he just lift his shirt and allow this animal to slice his stomach? If at least he had some fat to protect him, but he was as lean as a greyhound.
“I don’t think I can—”
Bill’s eyes morphed into tight slits. “Goddamnit. Lift your shirt or I’ll go back for a visit with your little girl. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t you touch her.”
“Touch her? Hell, I ripped her finger out already. That’s just the smallest piece of her pie I could take.”
Harden resisted the urge to lunge. Breathe, he told himself. Relax. Don’t let him be in any more control than he already is. Bill is vulnerable, exactly because he doesn’t think he is. You hurt him once, and now he’s drunk. He can’t even stand straight. Use this opportunity, but don’t let him make you mad.
Harden slowly lifted his shirt. His shrunken, tight belly recoiled even more at the chill of the room. His skin was an almost translucent white. The underbelly of a fish.
“Mmm . . . there we go.” Bill leaned over and studied Harden’s stomach. Harden could feel Bill’s hot breath on his skin.
Without any further warning, Bill raised his hand and flicked his wrist, slicing the top end of the blade along Harden’s abdomen. It was done so expertly Harden’s first thought was Bill couldn’t possibly be drunk, or that it even happened. First, a cold, stinging sensation along his skin, like someone swiped a sharp piece of ice against him. Then incredible, oozing warmth.
Harden looked down. This cut was longer than the one on his hand. The edges of the open wound pushed upwards like dirt heaved by worms. Blood spilled.
A lot of it.
“Oh my God . . . oh my fucking God.”
“Yeah, boy. Look at that go.”
Don’t panic, Harden. It probably looks worse than it is.
Harden grabbed his stomach and blood poured through his fingers. It was so red. The cut was much deeper than he expected.
Bill started mumbling on about something, almost chant-like. Harden tried not to listen. Something about the blood.
Harden felt himself starting to wretch and then sharp pain shot through his belly. If he threw up, his intestines might spill from him. He fought back the bile.
Bill leaned in toward Harden. Harden feared the knife again, but the man only spoke. His words were whispered through thin lips.
“Three more questions, Harden.”
Harden steadied himself.
The blood kept coming.
Through the thoughts of blood and death, Harden realized something: Bill no longer stood between Harden and the door.
I’ll never make it.
The door was unlocked. He knew it was unlocked.
And Bill’s partner was gone.
“Three more—”
Harden charged directly into the man’s stomach.
It was the second time Harden had attacked him. No matter the outcome, Harden knew it would be the last. This was his only hope.
He had just enough mass and strength to make Bill take a few steps back, but his efforts didn’t come close to taking the man out. Instead, Bill bear-hugged him and Harden waited for the knife to slice through him.
Then Bill surprised him. He pushed Harden away.
Harden now stood closest to the door, but he didn’t think he could get out before Bill took him down.
Then another surprise.
Bill threw his blade to the floor, where it landed just inches from Harden’s feet.
“Pick it up,” Bill commanded.
Harden didn’t hesitate. He reached down and seized
the scalpel, feeling a fresh burst of pain as his stomach contracted.
Harden took a step backwards toward the door, facing Bill. The blade quivered in his outstretched right hand.
“Now things are getting fun,” Bill said.
Harden took another step backwards. He was close enough to touch the door, if he dared turn his back on Bill.
“You’re so close, man. All you have to do is leave. The door is right behind you. Freedom is just upstairs. It would be so easy—you’re the one with the knife, not me. So I’ll give you a choice, because, like I said, we all have choices to make. You can either try to make it out of here by being faster and stronger than me, or you can put the knife down and we’ll get back to our game.”
“Seems like an easy choice,” Harden said. The blade felt solid in his hand.
“But here’s the rub,” Bill said, grinning. “My game will hurt you, but it won’t kill you. On the other hand, if you choose to run and I catch you, I’ll slice a hundred pieces of skin off you before cutting off your nose and ears. That probably won’t kill you either, but you’ll wish it would.”
“If Coyote wanted me dead, I’d be dead. So I’m guessing if you do that to me, you might be the next one to end up here. And you’re too stupid to write your way out.”
Bill beamed a big, crooked-toothed smile at this and took a small step forward.
Blood continued to run.
Freedom was so close, and the adrenaline in Harden convinced him he would make it. He could be faster. He could be stronger. All Harden had to do was lock Bill inside. Then get Emma. Then get the fuck out of wherever this place was.
Now is the time, he thought. It has to be now. I might not make it, but it could be my last chance.
“I’m leaving,” Harden said. “I will use this knife if you try to stop me.”
Bill didn’t come for him. In fact, he offered a meager shrug and actually took a few steps back into the cell, moving further away from Harden.
“Suit yourself. I’m not going to stop you, man.”
Bill now stood far enough away that Harden knew he could make it. He didn’t even take the time to question Bill’s sudden change of heart. Time to leave.
Harden turned.
That’s when he saw the other Baby Face standing just outside the cell door. He was holding something. Small and black, but not a gun.
He pointed it at Harden.
Baby Face pushed a button.
Harden didn’t even see the two tiny metal prongs leave the device, but he felt them when they both stuck in his chest.
Then a massive jolt. It was like some huge hand picked him up and shook him like a rag doll.
He crashed to the floor. He looked up and saw the baby mask nodding at him, and Harden realized the man behind it was laughing.
Before he passed out, Harden had the vague sense of pissing himself, but maybe, in fact, it was all the blood.
PART II
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
JANUARY 1990
The ten days Coyote was gone was both a reprieve and a curiosity. I had no doubt what he was doing was giving a small university town ample time to mold a story disproportionate to the facts. The facts were these: he flipped out at the bar and ran away into the night with a willing accomplice. As the hours and shock value passed, I was convinced he didn’t at all levitate. How could he? Still, what I had seen was street magic of the highest caliber, and if I didn’t know what Coyote’s plan was, I might have even believed he did float above that table. I still don’t know how he did it.
And I wasn’t the only one wondering what had happened. News of the event scorched through campus, and even the CBS affiliate out of Albany covered the story, the juiciest part being Coyote and Jacob’s mysterious disappearance. Charlatan or not, Coyote was a story.
No one seemed to have any contact information for Coyote’s father. I was able to call Jacob’s home, and his parents didn’t seem worried beyond the fact he was missing some school time. Probably just on a whorin’ trip in Manhattan. That’s actually what his dad said to me. A whorin’ trip.
Wherever they went, I wasn’t too concerned, because I figured the entire purpose of their disappearance was to generate buzz, which is exactly what it did. They would come back when they could make some kind of grand entrance, and that would begin phase two of Coyote’s plan.
I remember those ten days clearly. That was when I fell in love for the first time in my life. Not just a little in love. There’s no such thing. There is either love or there isn’t, and that’s something I never understood until Emma.
I read an article once about a group of scientists who did a study on love. They measured the brain patterns of new couples who claimed to be madly in love against long-term couples who claimed their relationship was comfortable but stale. The differences were striking, and the scientists decreed the rush of new love to be as addictive as heroin. In the confines of their lab, these scientists concluded that the high of nascent love is something humans are doomed to chase their entire lives. Heroin or not, in those ten days Emma was all I wanted; I craved her by the second and felt hopeless and lost in her absence.
In those ten days, the frosty air barely registered on my skin. My body was continuously flushed with heat, and at times I wondered if I was getting the flu. But I never got any symptoms apart from my body temperature running hot and my distinct lack of appetite. Emma and I spent nearly every moment we could together: between classes, meals on campus, and the occasional dinner. We had shared several more kisses, but I could tell she was still trying to figure me out. She wondered how far I wanted to take this, and if I really cared for her or was just looking to prolong the excitement and danger.
And what about her? For all I really knew, I was merely a brief rest area on her road to something more interesting. I didn’t think that was the truth, but Coyote had taught me that belief can be as spongy as tar on a hot desert road.
The bottom line was I just didn’t care. Whatever our subconscious intentions were, I wanted her. More importantly, she wanted me. I wasn’t used to that, and it made me guarded, vulnerable, and deliriously happy.
* * *
I lost my virginity at seventeen, but I never made love until I was with Emma. That sentiment sounds like it belongs in a Barry White song, but its triteness makes it no less true.
There was no guilt associated with our physical relationship. She clearly did not love Coyote, or at least not in the way that interfered with what she felt for me. For my part, I didn’t distinguish between kissing and fucking. Crass, but true. I had betrayed Coyote’s friendship the moment I first touched Emma’s lips with mine, and so any further physical and emotional escalation between us left no deeper grooves on my conscience.
She had come over on a Thursday night to watch a movie, and Derek was on the road with his rugby team. Jacob and Coyote were still gone, and it was beginning to feel like they would never return.
The place was ours.
She entered my apartment, movie in hand. No sooner than the door was locked behind her, she attacked me. It was a fierceness of passion I had never experienced. “Let’s go to your room,” she breathed, flicking her tongue over my earlobe.
I smacked my head into the doorjamb pulling her into my room, but she was nice enough just to laugh a little.
She placed her hands on my shoulders and walked me to the bed, gently nudging me to sit on the edge. As I did, she leaned forward and kissed me deeply as she pushed me all the way down. Her fingers deftly undid each button on my shirt; as she worked her way down, she pulled my shirt open and licked and nibbled every part of my chest. I didn’t close my eyes. Rather, I watched her as she explored my body with her mouth, and I moaned as her hair dragged slowly along my stomach, sweeping along my skin with the softness of a feather.
She broke away briefly to stand and pull her shirt off, which she discarded to the floor. Then she was on me again and our skin seemed to melt together.
“Do yo
u have a condom?” she asked.
I nodded, thinking I might have even managed a dopey uh-huh. I always had condoms handy. Not because they were needed often, but because that was what you did when you were in college. You kept things in your drawers just because you could. I pictured them in my mind: an unopened ten-pack of Trojans in my underwear drawer, right next to a pack of half-smoked Marlboros from months past that I never threw away.
What happened next seems a beautiful blur to me now. When it was over, she fell forward onto my sweaty chest, and I wrapped my arms around her tiny waist. That’s one of those moments you can only cling to with an immediate presence of mind. Try to hold onto it for too long, and it dribbles between your fingers. In that moment, I drank of it.
“I need you,” she said. Her words were so soft I wasn’t sure I had heard them.
She pushed herself up and stared into me. “I need you,” she repeated. “That’s not an easy thing for me to say. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“This is good,” she said, dragging her fingertips lightly over my nipple. “We are good. I don’t know what you want out of this, but I’m beginning to think this could be more than good. This could be something.”
“Something,” I said. Yes, exactly that.
She looked at me for a moment and I saw her face lose just a bit of its vulnerability. “I think that’s enough said for right now.”
She started to turn her face away, but I kept it in place with one finger.
“I need you, too.”
Her eyes softened once again and she smiled. Then she kissed me, very lightly, as if that gave her back some kind of control she thought she had lost.
After that, we spoke very little, not out of awkwardness but because being together was enough. She dressed and used the bathroom while I pulled my pants back on. I could still smell her hair on my skin, and I hoped it would linger on me forever.
We sat on the couch, her head in my lap, and watched Big. I didn’t see it when it came to the Tillman theaters about a year before, though I had wanted to. I was expecting a lighthearted comedy, something to laugh with for a while and pass two hours holding Emma. But the movie punched me in the chest. To me, this comedy was a drama, a painful look at the loss of childhood innocence. Emma saw Tom Hanks as a goofy boy trying to figure out how to be an adult. I saw him as an innocent little kid—a twelve-year-old in the movie, but seven in my eyes—whose childhood had been suddenly snatched away in the dead of night, waking up to a world where things were large, dark, and forever unchangeable. In the scene where he’s curled up in a fetal position in a cheap hotel room, desperately alone, listening to the cityscape wail of sirens and shouting, I felt myself tearing up. I almost asked Emma if we could watch something else, but I didn’t want to have her ask me why. So I closed my eyes and counted to twenty. In those seconds she squeezed my knee. I don’t know if she sensed what I was feeling but I didn’t say anything. I opened my eyes, breathed deeply, and floated through the rest of the movie.
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